


a thousand battles, a thousand victories

by goldentrivia



Category: One Piece
Genre: Character Study, Introspection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-11-17 19:16:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18104735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldentrivia/pseuds/goldentrivia
Summary: The King of Pirates and his enemies.





	1. Crocodile

**Author's Note:**

> i read a lot of really good 'nakamaship' fics and i started to think about the inverse of that

He’d long since given up on dreaming.

It would stir up, every now and then, when he was in a mood and could almost feel a phantom  ocean’s breeze brush against his face, echoing salt and sunlight and freedom. Even when he’d lost his hand, his face, _everything_ , he still had the sea…

Except he doesn’t, because Alabasta is a desert and Crocodile stands in its epicenter, proud under the bone-white sun. On good days, he can appreciate the irony. He’d chosen a place that would play to his strengths and minimize his weaknesses, a place with hardly a drop of water in all of its borders--so long as he and Baroque Works had any say in it. He had power he could only dream of back then; he had status and wealth and a mastery over his abilities that would make a younger version of himself weep. He had the freedom to plot and plunder as he pleased while the World Government turned a blind eye.

On bad days, he glances at the murky water behind the thick glass of Rain Dinners’ underwater floor. Building a meeting place here is something he would never have dreamt of back then. Even now, the instinct of a Devil Fruit user sends an unpleasant chill creeping up his back and into his skull. But he forces his body to go still and solid and the bananawani stare back with their black eyes.

He remembers the sharp yearning of his rookie days and the lightness he’d felt then, the carefree abandon that could only be found in the New World. He thinks about the cold greed that fills his mouth now, and how it tastes like sand and smoke slipping between his teeth and spilling down his throat. He sits in his office, in the last rays of sun piercing through the tall windows. Every piece is in place, every pawn is in play. He thinks about Doflamingo’s operations, how his purported plans for Dressrosa put Crocodile’s own ambitions to shame. He’ll need more soon, he knows, and more after that. He could conquer half the world and the One Piece with it--an impossible dream, which is a cold thought--and it would not be enough.

 _That_ thought is even colder.

Crocodile lights another cigar and pulls another string into place. Introspection doesn’t suit him.

>>>>

He has ten officer agents. The strongest of them serves as his right hand and mouthpiece. When he allows himself to make comparisons, her blue eyes and straight black hair reminds him of his first mate, although the kid would’ve never spoken so formally. Miss All Sunday--Nico Robin-- has a certain air about her that sets her apart from Crocodile’s foggy memories. A small mercy, even as he listens to her serene voice dripping poison. None of his crewmates would have ever talked like that.

He quashes the thought ruthlessly.

He stays in the shadows, acting as Alabasta’s savior while laying down the foundations for its downfall. He keeps his eye on his operations and before he knows it, time has passed and Pluton is in his grasp. It tastes like he expected, like sand and smoke. Alabasta rots while Alubarna is drenched in rain, and with it comes the sharp, heavy scent of ozone. Something in him twinges, and for a second he remembers--

_(The way the wood beneath his boots slickened with seawater and pitched back and forth, up and down. It would have made a lesser man vomit but Crocodile doesn’t even feel the violent movements. He’s a Hammer, surrounded by water on all sides and pouring out of the sky like judgement and he’s laughing so hard his chest hurts. Victory is the rush of blood in his ears, it’s his first mate’s warm body pressed against his back, spine to spine--his crew warn him with sharp voices to stop fucking around and pay attention but they’re drowned in canon fire and thunder. There’s a crack that rattles the bones in his chest and the wood beneath him splinters. Everything happens so quickly but he feels the way his stomach lurches as he falls, the way his breath explodes out of his body when he hits the waves._

_The way everything slows when he sinks, going lax in the currents. He feels heavy, like something’s pulling him down. He imagines the sea clawing at his body and screaming for the power that he stole._

_He’s not afraid._

_As if on cue, there’s a distant splash and a storm of bubbles and he sees a black silhouette swimming towards him, extending a hand that he can’t even reach out to grab. But he's still not afraid. He doesn't think he'll ever be afraid, and just to prove it, he laughs, eyes closed against the now unbearable sting of saltwater but still able to feel the tickle of a million little pockets of air brush the planes of his face and stick to his lashes. There’s a brush of warmth at his fingertips…)_

\--how sentimental he’s gotten in the last stages of his plan. He blames it on the man that calls himself a prince, on Nefertari Vivi, on ten long years in the desert and twice that alone. He grits his teeth and shakes it off. He puts out the cigar in his hand, crushing it into the banister and flicking it off the balcony so the tobacco and ashes crumble onto the street below. There’s a black spot in the white paint that he knows he can’t rub out, so instead of looking at it, he turns on his heel and walks back inside.

Nico Robin is waiting for him, a soft smile on her lips that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Something in her has changed recently, but Crocodile is seething and he can’t bring himself to care.

The strange feeling that won’t leave him alone, so he plans to unravel it until he can find the source. He reaches for another cigar, lights it, and inhales deeply in one smooth, practiced motion. The plan has wobbled away from its course, as plans are wont to do. It’s not a problem, he assures himself.

But there’s something in her flat blue gaze that unsettles him, so he dismisses her and sits down and _thinks_. He closes his eyes in the soft evening darkness, listening to the patter of rain, surrounded by fragrant smoke. He chases the fleeting discomfort as far as it will go, but each time he manages to feel the edges of it brush his fingertips, he finds that it floats away.

>>>>

Crocodile has sailed the New World for longer than this brat has been alive, but the look on his young, round face makes every muscle in Crocodile’s body go still.

He’s seen those eyes before.

>>>>

Awareness comes and goes.

He hears murmured conversations thick with fear even as heavy manacles are locked around his wrists and ankles--at one point, he cracks open an eye and the Navy consign standing over him flinches back with a squeak. He’s too tired to gloat but he thinks, good. He hasn’t lost that at least, and the knowledge leaves him just as hollow as before.

_(He’d only ever fallen in the water twice. The first had been a couple months after he’d taken in his first crewmate. He’d gotten careless and wasn’t used to his abilities at that point. It had been a simple loss of balance and she’d fished him out before he could even shout._

_This is far harder, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut against salt and tears as another retching cough wracks his body. His crew, at least those who can afford to, crowd around him murmuring comforts as he spits more water and bile. He’s laughing, and he can hear his first mate snarl behind him._

_So glad you think this is funny, she hisses._

_Crocodile just wipes his mouth and sits back with a thud. His throat is raw and he can taste blood coating the back of his teeth, and his ship is a mess of wood floating aimlessly on the water. But the Navy ship is tipped over on one side, uniformed bodies floating in between the wood, some motionless and some thrashing, clinging to life. He doesn’t care about them._

_What matters is the beat filling his chest and roaring in his ears. Anything else comes second, he says. They are free.)_

Without his plans for Pluton, all Crocodile knows how to do is survive. He’s in chains, the seastone leeching his strength by the second. He knows where he’s headed and can’t bring himself to care. As a Warlord, he’d visited the prison once. It’s not a pleasant place, yet he considers going along with it as much as he considers breaking out. He half-heartedly muses that it may be the same instinct to prod at an abscessed tooth, or to stretch out a fresh wound. If anything, it will be a welcome change of pace.

Goldenweek comes for him. She shows him his dream. If he’s being honest with himself, the kid almost reminds him of--

He sees himself as king, except it’s not really him. It’s him without the emptiness and the cold ambition. He’s on a ship, uncaring of the water around him because _they’re_ there. Something picked raw and open by the strawhat boy twinges and he decides he’s going to stay. He’s going to Impel Down. Alabasta is free; it’s time for Sir Crocodile to rest.

>>>>

He takes the water without flinching.

>>>>

News travels in Impel Down. Guards are chatty and inmates gossip like hens. Crocodile listens with half an ear. One day, he comes across something interesting.

The Second Division Commander in Whitebeard’s crew. He’d been captured a couple days ago and set to be executed as soon as possible. Crocodile watches when he’s brought in, weighed down by enough seastone to sink a small island. He watches the kid as he’s lead out only a couple days later. He doesn’t bother to hide his derision from the other inmates.

Someone who goes to their death like a lamb to the slaughter, like he thinks he _deserves it_ just might, in fact, deserve it.

Then he watches the strawhat boy break in.

>>>>

Ivankov is a surprise. He grits his teeth but lets the frustration come and go. It’s not a big deal; he’s breaking out to fight Whitebeard, not to cause the strawhat boy and his friends trouble.

In the end, the Navy lets him go wild, since their goals are aligned. For the moment.

>>>>

He’d hated Whitebeard’s kid since the moment he saw him. Still, Crocodile wordlessly wills his body to _move_ , to throw the executioners off of the platform. The startled choking noise the kid makes pisses him off, but the way Sengoku grinds his teeth is worth it.

The Navy doesn’t deserve to taste victory. Everything else is secondary.

>>>>

They escape under the shadow of the Red Force, which stands stark and proud against the pale blue sky. Crocodile isn’t injured, but the same can’t be said for the canon fodder that are picked off of the battlefield, oozing blood and sweat. He tries to decide how he feels about this--is it pity or spite?

He thinks he might be tired.

>>>>

He remembers Whitebeard’s death, the hollow satisfaction ( _finally_.) at seeing the old man go down and his hundred thousand “sons” wail for his passing. More than that, he remembers Whitebeard’s words.

The One Piece is real.

>>>>

By some miracle, both he and Daz live.

They escape into the New World, a couple days ahead of the crowd. Most of the new crews spurred on by the Emperor’s last words are in it for their own greed. They think Roger’s treasure is gold, and will be killed or captured within their first week. The Grand Line doesn’t look kindly on that kind of weakness. The New World less so.

He tells Daz that they will wait in Sabaody for a month. Wait for the dust to settle, so when they do enter, the wheat will have been separated from the chaff. Only the best may survive in the new era, he says. Daz doesn’t respond, but his eyes harden.

Daz has always held him with something in between fear and respect, although now it swings more towards the latter. In the desert, that thought would have irritated him, but in the shadow of the New World, he thinks he might just be able to return that respect.

>>>>

They enter the New World under the pale, weak light coming from the sliver of moon suspended in the night sky. Desert nights had always been breathtaking, but they are nothing compared to the way stars reflect off of the still, open sea.

Something raw in his chest splits open and twists and he prods at it the same way someone would prod at an abscessed tooth.

For a split second, he thinks he can hear a voice say, _gods, you’re old_.

>>>>

Deep down, he knows the One Piece isn’t for him. He’ll keep sailing and striving for it--that’s the way he is, but he knows the time of the old generation is passed. For a split second, he thinks--

( _Of burning black eyes. Wild, resolute. The king is dressed in red and he stands proud in the center of the square_

_He’s grinning like a madman--there’s a slash of white that curves across his face so brilliantly that Crocodile can see it, even in the crowd. The people around him are somewhere between sheep and wolf; they’re both cowards and enemies._

_The king just laughs, and when he talks, his voice ripples through the air like the most violent riptide, sparking with lightning as it washes over the people and their wide, wolf-sheep eyes._

_Crocodile is in the crowd, barely eighteen and still soft-faced. He’s one of hundreds of thousands that are inspired by the King of Pirates, whose words ring in his ears and light a fire under his ass. Before he knows it, he’s out of town and riding out to sea in a shitty little sloop with twenty other guys who leer and squabble and drink by the gallon._

_Crocodile isn’t like those guys. He feels the king’s gaze on him, like a phantom chain is anchored in his chest and it pulls and pulls and pulls. He’s not religious or superstitious but when he’s in a mood he thinks it might be destiny.)_

\--of burning black eyes, hidden under the shadow of a straw hat.


	2. Doflamingo

His earliest memory is of his mother’s voice. It’s one of the clearest memories of her, too. She’s holding him and Rosinante in her arms--he remembers the scent of her perfume wafting over them, and his brother’s warmth seeping into his side.

She’s telling a story. She was always good at those, knowing when to brush past exposition and when to wrack up the drama.

Their favorite story was of the D. He remembers laying his head on his mother’s chest, listening to the way her voice would rumble through her body when she spoke on behalf of the D. The way D’s words would come out of her mouth uncharacteristically sharp. When she narrated, it was almost in a breathy whisper, as if the D were in the room with them. He remembers how it would slip out of her throat, leaving the ear he pressed to her body warm and empty.

He remembers giggling when Rosinante shivered in fear. “ _I’ll protect us,_ ” he’d said, craning his neck to look up at her. He remembers feeling her laugh more than he heard it, warm and soft and gentle, humoring his childish bravado. The window was open, he remembers. It was hot outside and sunlight caught her golden hair dazzlingly.

Gods, she was gentle. Good-natured and humble, she’d readily agreed when her husband had suggested moving in with the common folk. She’d cajoled Rosinante where he’d whined and cried, and she’d soothed his own flaring temper as easily as telling a story. “ _C’mon, Doffy_ ,” she’d said, and he remembers how laughter had filled each word. “ _It’ll be an adventure_.”

Yeah. Some fucking adventure. His other clearest memory of her is from a few weeks before her death, when the fever was at its worst. It’s the only memory he has of her face. She was beautiful, even when half dead. Soft. Gentle. Maybe too much. After all, she’d always told him, “ _Nothing is good in excess_.” And maybe she was right. Too soft and the world will chew you up and spit you out. Too cruel and it’ll still chew you up and spit you out, except in the name of justice.

He decides early on, _fuck_ justice.

And the words tumble out of his mouth, one after the other. It washes away the hazy memory and replaces it with fire--raging heat and hate that licks at the soft skin on his neck and face even from where he hangs, far above the torches. He chokes on salt and soot and blood and _screams._

>>>>

They live. It’s divine intervention, he thinks. It’s divine intervention and he’s the god. The man who gave him the gun said so, lavishing praises through snot and sweat--all really fucking gross now that he thinks about it.

He fiddles absentmindedly with the trigger. The gun is heavy in his hand, heavier than he’d thought it’d be, but he doesn’t mind.

He holds it out in front of him. It’s a little awkward at first because he’s never held a gun before, but he at least has the sense to use both arms, and the way his father’s eyes widen, horror-struck, makes up for all the fumbling. He cocks back the hammer and the man in front of him flinches. He’s more bones than flesh and his eyes and teeth are yellowed with disease and decay. Donquixote Homing threw away his godhood. Good. He can die a human, for all his son cares.

His father is begging now, and behind him, Rosinante cries so shrilly his voice breaks. It all fades away and for a second, he remembers his mother’s warm voice, carried by laughter and sunlight. He pulls the trigger.

>>>>

Doflamingo runs away from Mariejois in a daze.

He had sat down in the blistering sun with a gun at his side and a small knife in his hand. He’d cut open tendons and sinew with clumsy strokes and a final pull that severed his father’s head from his body, and then he’d brought it to Mariejois. An offering for the gods of this world. Rosinante had run away before the first gunshot had even echoed over the dump. Initially, he’d been angry, then concerned, then he’d just brushed it off with the assurance that, once he regained his rightful status, he could just come back for his weak-willed little brother.

But they didn’t want him back. The thought bubbles up in him now, clawing at his throat like flames.

>>>>

Time heals all wounds. Doflamingo is older now. He’s stronger and the initial hurt is washed away by something sharp and sour that spills out of his chest in wild laughter and violence that comes and goes like quicksilver.

He has a family of sorts, one that will follow him to their deaths and beyond if he asked them to. He also has a family of traitors ( _and then there’s that faint memory of sunlight, always sunlight. As persistent as a fly and something he can swat away just as easily_ ).

Still, looking at his weak-willed little brother through a thin veil of tobacco smoke, he figures that he’s no hypocrite. He’ll take Rosinante back, ‘cause he’s nice like that.

>>>>

Rosinante is Corazon now, and he’s older and stronger too. He also doesn’t talk, but then again… Doflamingo remembers the smell of rotting flesh and garbage under a bone-white sun, and he shrugs it off. People change, but Rosinante was always, _always_ the weak one. He’ll just have to look after him.

>>>>

There’s a boy in front of him, wrapped in grenades.

Interesting enough on its own--but really, it’s in the kid’s eyes. The eyes that peer up at him from under the shadow of a fur hat strike Doflamingo as incredibly familiar, but it’s not until the boy opens his mouth that he realizes _why_.

“ _I’ll kill every last one of you_ ” rings in his ears even as the boy looks up at him and says, “I want to destroy them all.”

>>>>

They learn that the boy’s name is Law, and that he’s from Flevance. He doesn’t flinch at the messiest deaths, and the look on his face as he stares out at splintered wood and uniformed bodies floating facedown in the water can only be described as satisfaction. Doflamingo remembers the way his voice had sounded then, spilling low and empty from his throat. Three years. Such a pity.

>>>>

When he learns about Corazon--about _Rosinante--_ he laughs. He laughs until his sides hurt. There’s something all too familiar bubbling up in his chest and he grins so wide his cheeks ache. The laughter spills out of him, hot and bright and sharp, and when he’s done there’s only cold, empty fury.

He pulls the trigger, again and again and again until the sound is only a memory. Then he turns on his heel and leaves his brother to bleed out in the snow.

Winter bites at the exposed skin of his face and neck and seeps past his suit. He’d loved his brother. He’d loved his father. And he still does.

He looks up at the flakes that fall from the deep blue expanse of sky and thinks, gods, he loves them. He was disappointed and angry but he’s not anymore and all that’s left is love that rings hollow in his throat and he thinks it just might be forgiveness.

>>>>

The only one that hasn’t disappointed him is his mother, and she’d died long before she had the chance. That’s why she’s the one he loves the most.

>>>>

He thinks he just might love Law too, when this is over.

>>>>

He’s wrapped in enough seastone to sink a small island, and while the metal had long since warmed to his body’s natural temperature, the chain chafes at his skin relentlessly as he shifts in the hold. Tsuru is sitting across from him, arms and legs crossed as she stares into the shadows of his cell, as unreadable as she always is. Gods, he wants to kill her. She’s strong and he’ll probably respect that once she’s dead, but right now, all he cares about is the simmering fury that fills his body because he can’t move even though he’s itching to get his hands around her thin, old-lady neck. It’s undignified, he knows, but he can’t help himself. He strains against the chains, practically shaking with the burning want of it all.

>>>>

In the end, he just laughs instead, because that’s all he can do. He laughs until his sides hurt and his chest aches and he spits hellfire and brimstone. “There’s a new age coming,” he warns.

>>>>

He likes Law. It’s not the kid’s fault he’s a D.

Wasn’t his stupid father’s fault that he was weak, nor his mother’s fault that she was kind. It wasn’t Rosinante’s fault that he was… gods, he can’t even think of what it was that might have compelled the man to stand face to face with his own brother, smoking gun in hand.

No, it’s not Law’s fault he’s a D, because at the core of it, Law is the skinny little ten year old who smiled at the sharp scent of blood and fear and bodies bloated with saltwater. The D will disappear once he dies, and then he can go back to being that shitty little kid again.

Not that Straw Hat though. Straw Hat’s D is an immutable part of him. He’s a sworn enemy of the gods. He’ll rip the world apart and laugh as it burns.

>>>>

There’s a storm brewing outside, one that he can taste on the tip of his tongue even from the hold, and he thinks, _perfect_. Never let it be said that Donquixote Doflamingo does not have a flair for the dramatic. When the next crack of thunder comes, he speaks.

“You people,” he spits, and Tsuru looks on impassively, “are going to regret this.”

He always gets the last laugh.

The irony flashes through him, all bone-white sun.

He thinks of Law’s dead eyes saying, “ _I want to destroy them all._ ” He thinks of grim fury in the set of Straw Hat’s jaw. He remembers.

Word for word. Never let it be said that Donquixote Doflamingo does not have a flair for the dramatic; never let it be said he did not inherit that drama from his mother.

“ _The family of D have been hiding in the shadows of history_ ,” he warns, and the sun blazes in his veins, blistering now.

The world is a lone wheel. Turning and turning for centuries, only now beginning to wobble. All it takes is one alliance, one betrayal. Already two D’s have teamed up--Law and his little miracle worker. Gods, he can’t wait.

“Tell the Celestial Dragons at Mariejois,” he warns, and the decades old spite roars in his ears.

They’ll be dragged down and their holy city will burn. Straw Hat, his Revolutionary father, that upstart Emperor, Doflamingo’s own little Law.

It’ll be divine retribution, he thinks, and he’s verging on hysteria now because he can feel wild laughter building plasma-hot in his chest. In the distance, he can hear thunder and lightning flash, close enough that the wood rattles. He shakes with it.

The Will of the D is the will of conquerors, of destruction. They’re a family of titans, stepping out of the void to crush the upstart gods of this world, and he is the prophet invoking their wrath. His words spill out of his chest with all the certainty of a bell--sixteen tolls for the death of an old era and the birth of a new. As Tsuru herself said, _the only outcome is the one that exists now_.

She’d also said “ _It’s over,”_ and “ _you_ _lost_ ,” but that just goes to show how one person, no matter how smart, can never get it all right.

Because that old woman was wrong. Straw Hat may have won, but Doflamingo didn’t lose.

As long as that brat keeps making miracles, he’ll never lose.


End file.
